Surprisingly Okay
by Quill Angel
Summary: Drugs are easy enough to come by, he's been told. Especially if you're pretty and if you know how to use your mouth. After all, the body is just transport, and Sherlock is willing enough to give them a ride. Mycroft calls it 'self destruction'. He likes to think of more as self preservation. Until John Watson came along. And saved him from that self made hell.
1. Prologue

**TW: Non-con, abuse, drugs, violence, sex, angst, angst, angst. If any of this is a trigger for you, I suggest you stop reading right about...now.**

**Eventual Johnlock, with a bit of Sheriarty at the beginning. **

**Ignore the typs, I don't have a beta. Sorry if it's a problem. :P**

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><p><em><strong>It's awfully considerate of you to think of me here<strong>_  
><em><strong>And I'm much obliged to you for making it clear<strong>_  
><em><strong>That I'm not here.<strong>_  
><em><strong>And I never knew the moon could be so big<strong>_  
><em><strong>And I never knew the moon could be so blue<strong>_

_**Prologue**_

Sherlock has always been sure of one thing; that he's smarter than everyone else. The knowledge of this one, simple fact brings him comfort, which is why he hangs on to it, always. Because the only way of dealing with the vast multitude of stupidity in this world is knowing that you function at a higher level than everyone else. His mind is superior; moving and deducing at a faster rate than a majority of this very dull universe, and it only temporarily slows down when you're high. And if Sherlock is dependent on anything, it's the drugs.

They're easy enough to come by, he's been told. Especially if you're pretty and you know how to use your mouth. Possibly that makes him a whore; but that is just a name, a label, and Sherlock gives no importance to labels, because they are man-made, and man is stupid. The body is transport, he reasons; and it's fair enough to give them a ride if they're willing to dish out the acid. This system has worked well enough in the past, and Sherlock finds it keeps him sane. Mycroft has begged him, and even though it is a novelty to see him plead, Sherlock is old enough to take care of himself. Mycroft calls it 'self destruction.' Sherlock likes to think of it more as 'self preservation'. Two sides of the same coin, really, if you think about it.

"How much further?" he asks, his voice slicing through the night air like a knife. He knows this part of the city well, it's not his usual haunt, but Victor seems to know where he's taking him, and so he follows. He's been fucking him for a while now, because Victor is a good supplier, if anything else. The unspoken rule of their 'relationship' as Victor is fond of calling it, is that he can shove his cock down Sherlock's throat if he gives him what he wants as well. He seems to think he's love with Sherlock; whatever twisted, deranged version he thinks of it in. Victor doesn't realise that Sherlock is emotionless; a brain without a heart, he likes to think- and it's only going to hurt him. But what does Sherlock care? It's not his responsibility. But since Victor is likely to be arrested any day now, Sherlock knows he needs a new source. He himself is far too clever to be caught, and besides, he has Mycroft; Victor is a sentimental idiot who has no street skills. Even though Sherlock is the one who's been schooled at Eton.

"Right around the corner. Just a little bit more." He takes his pale wrist and leads him on; he doesn't need to, Sherlock is perfectly capable of walking on his own, but Victor is fond of physical contact, and Sherlock is too wrung-out to react. He needs a fix, and he needs a fix _now_, and he really doesn't care about Victor's fantasies.

It gets darker as they keep walking, the streets lit by one or two solitary lamps. The houses in this part of town are tumbling down to ruin, and there are people leaning against dumpsters and broken shop-windows, staring at them with hungry, cold eyes. Even in the dark Sherlock can deduce who has a family and who's pregnant, and who's about to kill the person right next to them within the next week. It should make him happy, but it doesn't. He really _does _need a fix if he's starting to pity random strangers.

They turn the corner, then, as Victor said, and into a dark alleyway lined by rubbish bins. Lewd graphitti is scribbled on the walls, and there is a pervading smell of cheap alcohol. At the end of alley, a small group of people are huddled together, laughing and smoking weed. Marijuana is not Sherlock's poison of choice, but he's hoping they'll provide him something a bit more upstreet. After all, _he's _a bit more upstreet.

They notice him and Victor coming, and someone calls out, "Trev! Who you brought with you?"

"Friend," Victor calls back, leading Sherlock down until they're at the intersection of the two walls. There is one woman, scantily clad with loud make up and a brightly burning cigarette that lights up the above, there is a bloke; slender, pale and dark haired, like Sherlock, but shorter and more delicate. Early twenties, as old as him; gay. Clearly. The other one is taller, blond, and far more drunk than the others. The three of them look at him, sizing him up, and the gay one looks him down from top to bottom, eyes raking his body with unashamed carnal appreciation. Sherlock is used to it, and he welcomes it, if it's going to get him any tonight.

"Well, you're a posh one, aren't you?" The girl says. She leans forward and looks into his eyes, her own bloodshot ones narrowed as she tries to deduce him. _Dull_. "What're you doin' with trash like Trev? Got any cash on you?" She sticks her hand into the pocket of his jeans, but Sherlock grabs her wrist and pins her against the wall with a snarl.

"Don't." He spits.

Victor tenses, the dark-haired bloke whistles loudly. "Touchy, touchy," he says in a sing song voice, grabbing his shoulder and pushing him back. "Likes it rough, does he?"

The blonde one guffaws loudly, before slumping against the wall and sliding down to the floor.

Sherlock can feel Victor's glare on him, but he doesn't care. The girl huffs and walks away with a, "_Motherfucking poof," _and it seems that the only sentient beings are Sherlock and the bloke.

"Victor says you deal," he says in an even voice.

He laughs, digging a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it. "_Deal_," he repeats. "What a vulgar word. Really, Trev, I thought you had a better vocab. I'm Jim, by the way."

Victor scoffs. Sherlock would rather he wasn't here at all, he doesn't need Victor cock blocking him. But it can't be helped.

"Do you have some or not?" he asks again.

"Maybe," Jim says. He hands Sherlock a cigarette. "Need a fag?" Sherlock takes it, slips it between his lips, and allows the bloke to lean uncomfortably close and light it for him, his fingers trailing Sherlock's arm as he does so.

"What do I get out of it, posh boy?" he asks, leering.

Sherlock shrugs. "Me," he answers simply, puffing out smoke.

Jim's lips turn up in a smirk. "Is that what you want?"

"No, that's what _you _want. I want the heroin that is clearly in the back pocket of your skin-tight jeans. You'll need a better hiding place than that if you want to prevent anyone from taking it."

He laughs again. "You're clever, aren't you?"

Sherlock smirks. "Impossibly."

Victor is getting impatient. "Sherlock. Fuck him and have done with it. I need to—"

Sherlock turns around, glaring at him. He steps back from the force of his gaze, fearful. It is clear who has the power in the relationship here. "Victor, go home."

"But—"

"_Leave_."

Victor bites his lip with a reproachful look at him, but obeys, plastering on the expression of Kicked Puppy. Sherlock doesn't give a bloody damn. He turns back to the boy.

"Now where were we?"

"You were offering to shag me, love. I'm taking up your offer," he lifts a hand to stroke Sherlock's cheek with the back of his hand. "Trev's a lucky bastard if he's getting to fuck you every night."

Sherlock, unsmiling, quickly takes both of Jim's hands and pins his wrists to the wall. He leans in, rubbing his body against him in ways that instantly harden the bulge in his pants.

"I want the drugs first," he whispers in his ear.

Jim is breathing heavily already. "Take them," he says.

Sherlock leans forward again, slips his hand into the back pocket for the drugs, strategically squeezing Jim's arse and making him clench in response before pocketing it himself.

Then Jim grabs his face with both hands, spinning them both around until Sherlock is the one pinned to the brick wall, and Jim is kissing him relentlessly, mercilessly, taking what he is in his own right to take, and Sherlock imagines he is somewhere else, his only solace that once Jim has his way, Sherlock will be all alone with his syringe.

He doesn't know if Jim is fond of public sex or if he's just really, really turned on, but he puts his hands on Sherlock's shoulder and pushes him down to his knees roughly. It hurts, but Sherlock is not given time to dwell on it because Jim unzips his pants and shoves his already leaking cock into Sherlock's mouth without preamble. It is dark, and the alley is well hidden, so they probably won't be seen.

"I've been wanting to use that clever mouth ever since you started talking," he groans, thrusting blindly. Sherlock says nothing, partly because his mouth is full of cock and partly because he hasn't paid for talking. He does what Jim expects him to do, and he does it well, because Sherlock knows it's all he's got. Jim moans and whimpers and calls him filthy names, which he probably assumes will turn Sherlock on, but Sherlock is not fond of verbal degradation, even though each of those names probably describe him perfectly. Jim seems over-attached to Sherlock's hair, and he tangles his fingers inside it and tugs mercilessly. His follicles hurt, and he lets out a gasp of pain once or twice despite himself, but it only seems to turn Jim on more. He supposes it's for the best anyway.

Jim finally comes in mouth, and once he's done thrusting, Sherlock stands up, wiping the ejaculate from his lips. Jim brings his face down and kisses him again, licking and biting and seemingly oblivious of the fact that it hurts Sherlock. Or maybe he knows, and he doesn't care. Sherlock doesn't either, the body is transport, he says to himself again; the pain is merely an illusion.

"How much more will you ask for if I want to shag you?" he asks in his ear. Sherlock's skin crawls at the contact, and at the thought of having Jim _inside _him, but he's done it before, and he only thinks of what he'll get in the end.

"Depends on how good this stuff is," he replies.

Jim chuckles. "Honey, that shit is as good as it gets. And I can show you a good time, I promise."

"I don't doubt it," he says, feeling the box in his pocket. "But I'll need to try it out first." In other words, he's only going to let Jim fuck him if he's as high as a kite, and since that seems like a delightful idea, he doesn't mind. Plus Jim isn't half bad looking; once you take away the psychotic leer and the manic gleam in his eyes, of course.

"Then let's go home," Jim says, smiling lecherously. Sherlock shrugs, and lets Jim take him down the alley, his arm curling possessively around Sherlock's waist. When they're out in the open, in slightly better light, they're about to turn when there is a scuffle to their right.

The object of the scuffle is a young man, probably a year or two older than Sherlock. Someone has him pinned against a building with a knife at his throat, and his blond head pulled back to reveal the neck.

Another one is digging in his pockets, presumably searching for a wallet. But Sherlock's eyes quickly deduce him; he's a twenty-something medical student with hardly any background; (though what he'd doing in _this _part of the city at _this _time of night is questionable) and he doesn't seem like a likely candidate for a mugging- his clothes are simple and inexpensive; what could they _possibly _get from him?

He doesn't know what possesses him. He rips free of Jim's gasp and runs towards them, pulling back the one with the knife away from the student. Sherlock is quick, and soon the knife drops to the ground, and the one searching his pockets stands up, ready to fight, but Sherlock already has his gun out. Yes, Sherlock has a gun. Or at least Mycroft does. Did.

He is holding one of them by the scruff of their neck and the other one at gunpoint. The student is frozen in fear, his blue eyes wide and uncomprehending at the scene in front of him. By this time Jim is getting bored and he walks up.

"Craig. Mike," he addresses the boys lazily. They seem to know him. Jim seems unfazed by the whole situation.

"What are you waiting for?" Sherlock snaps at the boy. "_Run_."

He doesn't need to be told twice. He grabs his bag and with a quick, "Thanks, I owe you one," runs off in the other direction. Sherlock hopes he isn't stupid enough to run into trouble again.

"Leave them alone now, big boy," Jim croons. "Mike and Craig have learnt their lesson."

Sherlock obliges, although he doesn't let go of the gun. But it seems he doesn't need it after all, because they scram with a quick word from Jim.

When they're heading out again, Jim is smirking. "You're quite the hero," he muses.

Sherlock snorts indelicately, slipping the gun back into the waistband of his jeans. "Heroes don't exist. And even if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."

"Modest too," he chuckles. "I can't wait to shag that out of you."

And he certainly does.

* * *

><p>Jim is demanding and possessive when it comes to sex, but that doesn't surprise Sherlock. He is used to being used, so to speak, and after a while, sex isn't <em>about<em> sex anymore. It's about power. It's about knowing that Jim wants him more than Sherlock will ever want him.

That night Jim fucks him, and Sherlock makes appropriate noises and moans and groans and whimpers like he's actually enjoying it, and maybe he is, but Sherlock's attitude towards sex is ambivalent at best. And it certainly won't improve if Jim continues to pound away at him like a madman. Jim is an animal that way, Sherlock realises, but it's all the same to him. They're both getting something they want from this, right?

So Sherlock believes. And Sherlock thinks that he's going to leave as soon as Jim is done; he will pull up his pants and zip up and take the cocaine and _leave_. But he doesn't. He doesn't know why he stays, he just knows that he doesn't mind as Jim doesn't mind and Sherlock falls asleep on the bed. Jim has taken him on a bed, which in itself is surprising. Most people who shag him are content to do it against a wall or on top of a table or on the floor. 'Bed' screams respect. And sex has never been about respect.

And that, he knows; is the fundamental aspect of their 'relationship'. Jim respects him and admires him in ways that no one else ever will. And Sherlock finds that he is drawn to Jim too. On some deep, primal level, maybe the both of them are more similar than Sherlock likes to believe. Jim is as much of a genius as he is, but Jim is violent and psychotic. But Sherlock doesn't mind. Jim doesn't force him to do the things he doesn't want to do, unless it's sex. Because Jim won't shag anyone else; especially when he has seemingly realised how _dull _everyone is, compared to Sherlock. He can relate to that.

Jim hurts him, sure. Jim likes to hurt him. He likes to mark him too. He has a fetish for physically proving that he has a claim over Sherlock, and the faint bruises and bite marks on Sherlock's neck are a testimony to that. Which is fine, because with the kind of group Jim mixes with, they all seem to want a piece. Jim rules supreme there, as well, so no one touches Sherlock. The fact that he is a prodigy is not a secret anymore, and they know that they can use him in _all _sorts of ways. Jim is protective, Jim thinks Sherlock is a possession he can keep for himself. And Sherlock doesn't mind, because sometimes it's just _easier _to have someone else take the decisions, to take control. It's fine, he rationalises. It's all fine.

It has been roughly a month since that night in the alley, a night since Sherlock might have elevated himself endlessly or dragged himself further down this hell. He can't tell which is which. He is still depressed, there are still cuts on his wrists. But some days are better than others. Some days he lives, and others he survives. It is less dull than before, which might be all he's going to get out of it.

He could learn to love Jim, maybe. Love is just chemistry; you could produce it in a lab. He can coax his brain into discharging the serotonin and the oxcytocin and the dopamine and then he could tell him, "I love you." Who knows? Maybe Jim would hit him less then.

And some days Sherlock thinks back to that night in that alley, and he thinks of that blonde, blue eyed medical student and he keeps on wondering _what _a respectable bloke like him would be doing _there_. He doesn't know why his mind keeps wandering back to him, and he doesn't know why he can't bring himself to delete him. He is a mystery that Sherlock can't seem to solve, and if it's one thing he hates, it's unsolved mysteries.

He'll find him, he thinks. And he'll ask him himself.

**OoO**

_**I don't care if the sun don't shine **_  
><em><strong>And I don't care if nothing is mine <strong>_  
><em><strong>And I don't care if I'm nervous with you <strong>_  
><em><strong>I'll do my loving in the winter. <strong>_

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><p><strong>Yay? Nay? I don't know whether I should go on with this. I have an idea for a multi fic, so I'd love to hear your thoughts. Please feel free to drop a review on your way out. Cheers. X.<strong>


	2. Crimson

**Warnings: Suicidal thoughts, self harm. Proceed with caution.**

**Thank you so much for your reviews. It's the only reason I'm continuing. I'm sorry I can't reply to some of you, but I still deeply appreciate it. Thank you. :)**

**I apologise for any typos you may see. Don't have a beta. If you see any unforgivable errors, please do PM me and I'll correct them.**

**Disclaimer: *sigh* If they did, they'd be having a whole lot more sex.**

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><p><strong><em>But listen carefully to the sound<em>**

**_Of your loneliness_**  
><strong><em>Like a heartbeat , drives you mad<em>**  
><strong><em>In the stillness of remembering what you had;<em>**  
><strong><em>And what you lost, and what you had, and what you lost<em>**

**:1:**

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure how it had happened.

He had done this before; numerous times. It was one of his most reliable coping mechanisms, and he knew how to do it with minimum effort and maximum impact. How to bring himself the most pain with least possible mess. It was supposed to work, damn it. _It was supposed to work._

But this was not what he had expected. Sherlock did not want to die; there were days he wanted to, sure, but this was not one of those days. All the blade had meant to do was cut that particular part of wrist it had cut many times before, but something had gone wrong and there was far too much blood.

Sherlock could see blind spots dancing in front of his eyes. He watched in slight fascination as the crimson seeped over the pale skin of his wrist, dripping down to the floor below. Funny thing, blood. So dark. Deep. Beautiful, almost. And that was _his _blood. Draining from his body and pooling around beneath him. This didn't seem like a bad way to go. Was there really any point in trying to hold on?

_You're pathetic_, he heard a voice whisper in his ear. He agreed whole heartedly.

He barely registered the pain, but he could feel himself slipping away, as that artery bled and bled and bled.

He was only vaguely aware of someone stepping up the stairs, their loud voice saying something. Then the door opened, and the person froze, and he heard a scream.

Oblivion welcomed him with open arms.

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><p><em>Beep. Beep. Beep.<em>

What _was _that persistent noise?

_Beep. Beeeep._

Wasn't he supposed to be dead?

_Beep. Beep.__Beep._

No. No, no, no. He didn't want to come back. What _point _was there in coming back?

_BEEEEEEP._

Sherlock's eyed flickered open once or twice, as awareness slowly made its presence known. His nose was assaulted by the sharp smell of disinfectant, a whiff of vitamins and something slightly stronger. The brief flashes of slight showed him nothing but white. Then he realised the presence of his body, and the softness under his back, and something covering him.

He decided to open his eyes completely. His other senses quickly attuned themselves.

_Hospital_.

He looked down at his wrist, heavily bandaged. There was another needle stuck into his skin, giving him blood, and another one providing him with saline. He tried not to feel disappointed. He looked around himself. It was a single ward, the curtains drawn. He tried to deduce something, _anything_, but his mind felt sluggish and slow. Then again, he _had _just cut open an artery. His mind just needed a few minutes.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes, I see you're awake," someone announced briskly. He looked up, his eyes taking in the nurse swiftly. _Early twenties, engaged, quick engagement, boyfriend cheated on her, wanted to get into something permanent as soon as possible just to comfort himself. _Too slow. Too little.

She stood next to his bed, checking his pulse and all the medical paraphernalia around him. He cared very little. He considered telling her not to bother, to just rip it off and have done with it because he was just so _tired_.

But she didn't. She looked down at him after that, her gaze soft. "Well, Mr. Holmes, your condition is stable. I don't know how to tell you how very lucky you are. If you hadn't been brought to the hospital as quickly as you had, I'm afraid you would not have woken up."

_I'm very much aware of that_, he thought, but didn't say anything. He nodded stiffly.

"Mr. Johnson will check on you in a moment, and then your brother will be here to see you."

"My _brother_?" he choked out. His voice sounded scratchy and breathy to his own ears. He cleared it loudly. The nurse looked a bit surprised at his outburst.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. Your brother. Mycroft Holmes, I think? Yes."

Before she could say anything else, a doctor entered the room, dark-haired and blue eyed. He smiled briskly at Sherlock, and nodded at the nurse. She nodded, leaving the room. He came and stood next to his bed, his hands in his pockets and a carefully neutral expression on his face. Sherlock knew what he was going to say, and he did _not _want to have this conversation. He didn't want to talk at all. His tongue felt like sandpaper in his mouth, and all me he wanted to do was _sleep_.

"Mr. Holmes," the doctor began. He cleared his throat. "I do not think I need to tell you that counselling in mandatory in these cases. We have a trained team of expert staff, and they will help you to feel be—"

"Let me stop you right there," Sherlock snarled, holding up a finger. "I do not need counselling. Do you understand? This was an accident, and it will not happen again. So if you could kindly get this _off _me-" he waved his wrist, "I will go."

"I'm afraid that—"

"Mr. Johnson, I think that will be enough," a smooth, well polished voice announced from the door. Sherlock groaned. Not _him_. He'd take the doctor any day over his brother.

Mycroft stepped in, twirling his umbrella, his heels clicking briskly on the well-scrubbed floor. "I'll take it from here."

The doctor raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me? And you are?"

"My name is Mycroft Holmes. And I think it will be in your best interest if you left right now."

"Excuse me, sir, but I fail to—"

"If you would be so kind, Mr. Johnson," Mycroft repeated again.

"Oh just get out of here," Sherlock snapped. "He really does mean it. He'll probably get you fired if you don't leave now, so just go."

The doctor looked between the two of them, back and forth, but then realised everyone was a bit too straightforward to be joking, so he left.

Sherlock immediately shut his eyes and turned over. "Go away," he mumbled into his pillow.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said wearily, sitting down on the bedside chair. "Do stop being childish."

Sherlock sat up immediately, ignoring the sudden rush of blood to his head. "If you're here to berate me about my immaturity, then _please _leave."

"Oh I apologise for not taking the fact that you bust open a vein lightly. A common, every day occurrence, isn't it? I might as well be used to it by now." His tone was light hearted and airy, but Sherlock knew better, considering the steely glint in his eyes.

"I wasn't trying to kill myself," he replied sullenly. "And I don't need counselling."

"Counselling will be a nightmare for both you and your counselor. I agree. And as far as killing yourself is concerned, I don't know what else to make of the evidence." He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "Come and stay with me for a few days. Until you feel better."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I feel _fine_. And I already have a flat."

"Ah yes. With your..._boyfriend_."

"I'm not having this conversation. Just go, Mycroft. As you can see, I am perfectly fine. Now go and settle the formal things and use your bureaucracy or whatever, just get me out of here."

Mycroft sighed tiredly, standing up. "Very well."

* * *

><p>It was him. It was definitely him.<p>

John blinked a couple of times just to make sure, but he actually wasn't deceiving himself. It couldn't be anyone else, not when he had catalogued every feature of that face into his brain. The dark, tousled hair, the pale skin, the slanted silver eyes, the blasted cheekbones. He had only seen him for one minute, but you don't forget a face like that, and you certainly don't forget a day like that. Not when the most gorgeous man you've ever seen saves you from possible death.

He was arguing with another man near the reception desk. He looked agitated, moving his hands as he spoke. The other man, slightly taller, much less slender, looked resigned and exhausted. He nodded once or twice, and the bloke finally stopped talking.

They were signing something at the desk, and once it was over, he could see the both of them walking towards him. The dark-haired bloke seemed too annoyed and irritated to notice him, but he couldn't, simply _couldn't _just let him walk away.

Before he could stop himself, he ran behind the two retreating figures, and caught his wrist. His _bandaged _wrist. Shit. He retracted his hand immediately, just as he turned around. The other man stopped as well, narrowing his eyes at John.

"Hi," he said.

The skinny one looked down at him, luminescent eyes flicking down once over his entire body, finally resting on his face. Recognition dawned, and the pale pink lips formed a small 'oh' of surprise.

"It's you," he said.

The umbrella-carrying man looked thoroughly confused. "Sherlock, do you know him?"

_Sherlock._ How very posh. He himself was a strange mixture of fancy and ratty; his face was all pale skin and romantic cheekbones and plush lips, but he was dressed in a wrinkled shirt and ripped black jeans. Turning impatiently to him he said, "Yes. Now go away. Don't you have a country to run?"

"I do not—" he huffed, before suddenly turning to John and holding out his hand for a handshake. "My apologies. Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock's elder brother."

"I- uh—" John stared at the hand for a few minutes.

"Go on, shake it, he won't kill you. Yet," Sherlock muttered. John raised his eyebrows at the choice of words, but shook it anyway, smiling politely.

"John Watson."

"Doctor?"

"Uh, no, just an intern. But- uh—planning to be one. Um." Ugh. He sounded like an idiot. But the bloke named Sherlock didn't seem to mind. He was staring at John with a strange expression on his face, which wasn't entirely comfortable.

"I see. Well, I must be off. I will see you later, Sherlock," he said, and turned around, walking off smartly in the other direction.

"So, uh, hello," John said again, trying not to be too obvious. But in his defence, he was a really attractive bloke. He also didn't know what to make of that wrist. Bandaged. Suicide attempt. He had seen plenty of those. Should he—?

"You're the one who came into one of the most dangerous parts of the city and almost got himself killed," Sherlock mused, leaning his shoulder against the wall. A smirk played on the corners of that bow-shaped mouth. His voice was low, deep, like...like...velvet or chocolate or something rich and posh like that.

"So you _do _remember me," John chuckled nervously.

There was a full-on smirk on his mouth now, and he slipped his hands into his pockets with casual grace. "Hardly something you're expected to forget, don't you think? Sherlock Holmes," he held out a long-fingered hand.

John took it this time, hoping it didn't look too eager. His skin was freezing cold, and his attention was once again arrested by the bandage around his wrist. _He really should—_

Sherlock seemed to realise the direction of John's thoughts, and quickly took back his hand. "Well, I wouldn't want to detain you," he said smoothly. "Nice to meet you, John Watson."

He half- turned around before John said, "No! Wait."

He turned back to him, one dark brow raised under the fringe of thick hair.

"I wanted to, er—well, I sort of wanted to thank you. For that night."

"Oh," Sherlock said, like this hadn't occurred to him at all. He waved his hand dismissively. "You needn't worry yourself over that. You looked like you needed help."

"Well, yeah. I would have been killed if it wasn't for you."

Sherlock shrugged. "But you weren't. So we can forget about that. I'll see you around, John."

"No, no, wait," John said again. John mentally kicked himself. He obviously didn't want to talk to him, but how could he just let him walk away? He needed to do something—thank him, somehow. But before he could say anything, he heard Mike call him from behind.

"Oi! John! Burke wants you in OR 3!"

John turned around to nod at Mike, and then he turned back to Sherlock, whose silvery eyes were watching him expectantly.

"Listen, I have a break at 4. Do you think maybe I could take you for a coffee, or something? Just to thank you," he said it all rather fast and rather nervously. He hoped he didn't look as red as he felt.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "You're asking me out for coffee?"

"Oh, no, no!" John shook his head vigorously. _Jesus that all came out wrong._ He felt his cheeks heat up. "Not like..not like a _date_. I mean, just like—a coffee, I just thought I should thank you somehow. So let me buy you a coffee. Or lunch. Or whatever you want." Okay now he was seriously rambling.

"Coffee or lunch or whatever I want," Sherlock mused, stroking his bottom lip with one slender finger. "That's a lot of options. Very well. Coffee, then. Four, you said?"

"Yeah."

"Fine. I'll see you at four then."

John could have pumped his fist.

* * *

><p>It was cold outside. He should have brought his coat.<p>

Sherlock leaned against a wall outside the hospital, lighting a cigarette. He breathed in the smoke gratefully, taking a long, indulgent drag. There was a feeling of panic rising in his chest, and the nicotine was barely quelling it.

It wasn't a _date_.

Jim wouldn't know. And what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Right? Of course.

Sherlock didn't believe in fate. Fate was for People. And he wasn't People. But he was rather glad that cutting attempt had gone all wrong. He wouldn't have woken up in a hospital. He wouldn't have met John Watson. John Watson with his floppy blonde hair and kind blue eyes. He wouldn't be going out with him for coffee.

But it wasn't a date.

He had certain qualms about assenting to John's request. Not because he didn't want to, because he sure did. (Although why he was so interested; that was a completely different question entirely) He just couldn't see why John would want to actually be in such close proximity with him. Why would _anyone_? Sherlock was an almost toxic presence, and John Watson seemed a like a good sort, the kind of bloke who wouldn't want _anything_ to do with him once he knew the kind of things he did. The kind of person he was.

But it was just one day. One coffee. And then he would never see him again.

He lighted a second cigarette, waiting for it to be four.

* * *

><p>John found him waiting outside, as he had promised, smoking a cigarette. He held it between two slender, delicate fingers, puffing it out. He looked almost elegant; like he belonged there, in that grey city with the grey streets, Sherlock Holmes with the alabaster pallor of his skin and the silver of his eyes.<p>

_Snap out of it._ Five minutes and he was already waxing poetic.

"Hey," he said, walking up to him.

Sherlock turned to him, eyebrows raised in greeting. He exhaled some smoke again, then dropped the cigarette, stubbing it under his ratty converse.

"John," he nodded. "Shift over?"

"For now, yeah," John ran a nervous hand through his hair. "So there's a coffee shop across the street. Do you want to—?"

"Oh dear god, you really don't mean _inside _it, do you?" Sherlock asked, in disgust.

John frowned. "Er. Well...yeah?"

"Absolutely not. Can't we have it outside? In the midst of—er—" he waved his hand vaguely. "Nature?"

"Nature?" John repeated, an eyebrow raised. "You didn't seem like the sort of bloke who appreciates nature."

Sherlock's shoulder slumped. "I don't. Thought I'd appeal to your aesthetic sense."

"I see dead bodies all day."

Sherlock nodded in agreement. "Should have considered that."

"Come on, I'll buy you your coffee. Then we can have it outside. In the midst of _nature_."

* * *

><p>Sherlock liked his coffee black, two sugars. John thought it seemed like an important fact to remember. Not that he was going to be making coffee for him any time soon, but, well, but it would be good to know. For any purpose.<p>

They sat down on a park bench attached to the hospital. John joked about Sherlock's 'nature' comment again. He flushed, and _dear god _he had never seen a man blush so prettily before. When Sherlock sat down, he drew his knees up to his chest and sat sort of closed together, like he was protecting himself.

"Are you—are you cold?" he asked tentatively.

"Oh, I err—" then there was a particularly nasty blast of wind and Sherlock shivered.

"Yeah," John nodded his head briskly and shrugged out of his jacket, handing it to Sherlock. "Wear it."

Sherlock looked at him as if he had gone mad. His eyebrows disappeared under his mop of curls, and his lips parted. "What?"

"Wear the jacket," he insisted. _Was it really so surprising? _His thoughts turned back to the bandages on his wrist, and a shiver ran down his spine. No wonder he was so shocked to find someone being nice to him. God knows where he had come from, how that had happened...

Sherlock licked his lips. "I—thank you. Thank you, John," he said in a low voice, taking the jacket and shrugging it on. He wrapped his arms around his calves again, facing John, resting his chin on his knees.

"So, that day. In that street. What were you doing there?"

Sherlock's lips quirked up. "And I've been waiting to ask _you _that question. Respectable young medical student. What on _earth_ were you doing in _that _part of the city? And as far as I'm concerned, I live there."

"You live there?" That didn't add up. Posh brother with the posh umbrella. And Sherlock didn't even _look _like the sort of bloke who would live in a shady alleyway in the east of London. His public-school accent said it all.

Sherlock saw the skepticism on John's face, and chuckled. It was an adorable sound, one that John didn't think Sherlock made often. It made him want to wrap his arms around him and—wait, what was he thinking? Sherlock didn't someone _pitying _him. And he was a doctor. He knew how you had to deal with suicide patients.

"Mycroft just pays my bills from time to time. I rarely take money from him, but he _does _love imposing himself." His bright eyes sparkled with wry amusement.

"He looked pretty distraught today. He must be pretty worried, considering your—" then he stopped, realising what he had just said. He flushed. Sherlock's expression darkened, his bottom lip trembling slightly.

"Shit, Sherlock, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

Sherlock sighed. "No, it's fine. You were bound to ask anyway." He took a sip of his coffee. "It wasn't a suicide attempt, if that's what you've been wondering."

Now it was John's turn to look skeptic. "You're not serious, are you?"

"I assure you, I am. I've never really wanted to kill myself. That would be rather dull, wouldn't it?"

John shook his head, chuckling. "You're the first person I've met who would consider killing himself 'dull'." But John still didn't buy it. He wasn't blind, he had seen the other scars on his wrist. Sherlock wasn't a stranger to self harm, and John needed to step very carefully if he wanted to ask Sherlock about it. He wasn't sure it would be welcome. They had just met, after all. And he didn't want to chase Sherlock away with his prying questions.

"Well, I'm not like most people you've met," Sherlock replied, with a slight air of arrogance. It was so bloody sexy that John couldn't help but imagine what it would feel like to snog that smirk right off his face.

"So, do you...er...live alone?" he asked. _Clumsy way of asking if he's got a girlfriend, you idiot. He'll see it right at once. _In his defence, he was usually too exhausted after work to flirt with anyone.

Sherlock pursed his lips, his gaze dropping. He swilled around the contents of his cup. "Alone...no, I wouldn't say that."

"Girlfriend, then?"

"Girlfriend?" he said, rather incredulously. "No, not my area."

"Oh, oh. Right," he nodded, trying not to show his relief. "Boyfriend, then?" he asked, rather hopefully. _If he's gay I've got half a chance._ Then he felt slightly sick with himself. The poor guy had just attempted to bust open a vein, and here he was, trying to get it on with him. What was wrong with him?

"Boyfriend," Sherlock repeated the world slowly, as if testing it. "Boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend." He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. Maybe."

"So you...you've got someone." His heart plummeted right down to his stomach. He shouldn't have been surprised. Gorgeous man like that, who would ignore that fine specimen of manhood?

"I've...er," if possible, Sherlock had become even paler. His fingers trembled a bit, causing the coffee to move around in his cup. John leant closer, a bit worried. Why was he so uncomfortable talking about his boyfriend? Surely he wasn't the reason—"

"For God's sake, I didn't cut myself because of some failed love affair," Sherlock snapped. John's eyes widened.

"How did you—"

"Don't insult my intelligence by finishing that question. It's written all over your face. And I don't know, John. He might be my boyfriend. He could be. I've never really labelled him."

"Boyfriend who doesn't come to visit you in the hospital?" John asked, feeling the anger rise up inside him. If the bloke really had someone, how could they _possibly _not care enough to be here? Why was Sherlock dressed in wrinkled clothes, why did he look so...unkept? Lost? What kind of person would allow their lover to move around in that state? What kind of lover would leave him all alone, in a great big hospital? Who did that?

Sherlock's head snapped up, those silvery eyes narrowing. A slight flush rose in his cheeks. "It's complicated," he hissed.

John leant back, taken aback by the venom in his voice. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

Sherlock gave a short, bitter laugh, suddenly standing up, dusting off his jeans. "Oh, I'm sure you did. It's fine, really. I'm used to it."

John was appalled. Oh fuck, what had he done? Had he hurt him? No, no no...he didn't mean to—of course he didn't. Jesus, he had gone too far.

"Sherlock, I'm—"

"Please don't feel any need to apologise, John," Sherlock said, shrugging out of the jacket and shoving into John's arms. "I don't even know why I'm here."

"But I wanted to—"

"Yes, you wanted to thank me!" Sherlock spat. "By buying me coffee! I don't need your fucking pity!"

John's jaw dropped. "Jesus, I wasn't—"

"Of course you were! Poor, forsaken bloke with the bandage around his wrist! Pathetic little thing with the messy relationship. Not all of them are easy, John! But it works for me!"

"Sherlock, please—" he reached his arm out to touch his shoulder, but Sherlock stepped back, holding up a hand.

"Please don't," he said, his voice softer now, less cutting. "Look, I'm sorry, but you really don't want to get involved. With me."

John frowned. "Why would you say that?"

Sherlock shook his head. "It would take a while to explain. Look, you've got a good job and everything. So don't try and—I don't know what you're trying to do, but you don't need to. Thanks for the coffee." He ran a hand throw the dark mop of hair.

John watched, frozen, as he turned around and walked out of the park. "Goodbye, John," he called over his shoulder, before crossing the street and disappearing from sight.

_**OoO**_

_**Oh thunder only happens when it's raining,**_

_**Players only love you when they're playing.**_

_**Women, they will come, and they will go.**_

_**When the rain washes you clean, you'll know.**_

_**You'll know.**_

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry if that was shorter than you expected. Future chapters will be longer and more dramatic.<strong>

**Until then, that button receives such little love. Go on. Click on it. And leave me a review. :***

**Cheers.**


	3. White Light

**TW: Non-Con, Verbal humiliation, abuse, self harm. Graphic scenes.**

**This is just to tell you guys that I am not showing the Sherlock/Jim relationship in a good light. This may be fanfiction, but at the end of the day it is _abuse _and I am NOT trying to make it sexy. It is not. So if you know anyone who is facing this, or if you're facing it yourself, please get help. Read my fic, enjoy it, by all means- but know that there is a line between what is a healthy relationship and what is not. I expect my readers to be mature.**

**On a brighter note, yes, there will be eventual johnlock and consequent shagging. Patience, dear readers. Patience.**

**PS. Typos are unintentional. PM me, I'll fix them.**

**Disclaimer: You know I don't. **

* * *

><p>:3:<p>

_**Last night I dreamt that somebody loved me.**_

_**No hope, no harm**_

_**Just another false alarm.**_

_**Last night I felt, real arms around me.**_

_**No hope, no harm,**_

_**Just another false alarm.**_

_**oOo**_

Sherlock leaned against the wall on the staircase, taking a few moments to collect himself. Jim would be home right now, he could almost smell his presence. He knew Jim would be waiting to touch him. To fuck him, possibly.

Sherlock slid down the length of the wall, sitting down on the top of the staircase, cradling his head in his hands, trying to fight off the headache that was already building behind his eyes.

He took a shaky breath, rubbing his face, trying to tear away the image of those deep blue eyes. A futile task, it seemed, because he just couldn't. He regretted what he had said; but honestly. He wouldn't be able to take it if John started being _nice _to him, treating him like...like he was actually _worth _it. And as much as he wanted to go back, to apologise, to beg that man to spend more time with him, Sherlock couldn't. He couldn't impose himself on someone who was so...untainted. It was wrong. Sick.

He heard a door open behind him. "Sherlock?" Jim's voice disturbed the temporary tranquillity Sherlock had been privy to.

He licked his lips, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, to get rid of his unsettling thoughts, then stood up to face him. He sighed. "Hi."

Jim raised an eyebrow, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest. "Where have you been?"

"Out," Sherlock replied brusquely, sidestepping him and entering the flat. He flopped down on the sofa, burying his face in the cushions.

"Out where?" Jim asked, closing the door. He felt him perch on the arm of the sofa, his fingers carding through his hair. He restrained the involuntary shiver his touch caused.

"London," Sherlock mumbled. Jim's grip on his hair tightened.

"Liar," he drawled. "Get up."

Sherlock sighed, but complied, like he always did, lifting himself off the sofa and resting back on his knees.

"I'm not lying, Jim."

Jim tumbled down on the sofa next to him, his eyes raking over his body, as if to gather evidence of Sherlock's apparent betrayal. Sherlock felt a stirring in his crotch from Jim's relentless gaze.

His eyes rested on Sherlock's wrist. They narrowed to slits, as he roughly grabbed it, lifting it to his face. A fizzle of fear ran down Sherlock's spine at the look in his eyes. The lazy, languid movements had suddenly become stiff, jerky. Angry.

"What is this?" Jim hissed, shaking Sherlock's wrist. Pain sparked in the skin.

"Jim—"

He let his hand drop, an expression of utter disgust on his face. "God," he moaned, standing up. "You did it _again_." His back was to Sherlock, one hand in his hair, running through it frustratedly. "You don't realise, do you?" he turned rapidly to Sherlock, his lip curling. Sherlock felt his blood move sluggishly in his veins, that familiar excitement and fear sparking all over his body, igniting it.

Jim was _mad_. And it turned him on.

"How _pathetic _it makes you," Jim moved towards him, stopping at the sofa, in front of Sherlock. He curled his fingers under his chin, lifting his face. A thumb brushed against his lips. Sherlock looked up at Jim, the cold brown eyes staring back, the pupils dilated. The side of his neck was pulsing. "It makes you _weak_, Sherlock," Jim slurred, straddling Sherlock's hips, his rock-hard erection digging between his legs. He cradled his face in his hands, the skin cold against Sherlock's skin, tilting it back so he had direct access to mouth.

"Do you know that it makes you weak?" Jim purred, running his lips down the side of his face.

"I—" Sherlock mumbled. "I don't—yes." He grinded helplessly against Jim, and Jim smirked.

"It turns you on, doesn't it? When I talk like this?" he raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock found the word form on his mouth before he had time to restrain himself. "Yes."

Jim smashed his lips to Sherlock's without warning, knocking him back against the head of the sofa, his fingers curling themselves in his hair, tugging on it until it hurt.

Sherlock groaned, spreading his legs wider for Jim, who was attacking his mouth with feverish ferocity, his tongue assaulting the inside of his mouth without restraint, biting down hard on Sherlock's lips, making him cry out in pain. But he was unable to stop it, to push him off, because he was supposed to _like _it. He wrapped an arm around Jim's waist, pulling him closer, rubbing himself against the bulge in his pants, and Jim's grip around his neck hardened, his lips moving down his jaw to his throat, where he bit the skin harshly.

Sherlock threw his head back, eyes fluttering closed, as Jim licked a line down the side of his throat to his collarbone.

"F-fuck," he moaned, as he felt Jim's hands move to the buttons on his shirt, ripping it apart furiously, buttons scattering everywhere. The cold air stung his skin. Jim's fingers raked across his abdomen, his chest, rolling a nipple between his fingertips. He bent forward, taking his earlobe between his teeth, tugging.

"God, _Jim," _Sherlock gasped, arching his back, his fingers digging into Jim's waist. Jim tugged at his hair, pulling his head back forcefully to expose his throat, his lips moving down to the hollow at the base of his throat, inhaling. He felt a hand move between their grinding bodies, gripping his erection.

"_Oh fuck," _Sherlock immediately rolled his hips against Jim's palm, desperately writhing beneath him. "You _like _this, don't you?" Jim whispered against his neck, his hand fondling him over the denim. "You like the things I do to you. Tell me, Sherlock. Tell me how much you enjoy being fucked like a dirty slut."

The words cause a wave of repulsion and arousal at the same time, and Sherlock could only mewl in reply, rubbing his crotch against Jim's hand, aching to provide some relief to the heat.

"_Tell _me, Sherlock," Jim purred, his voice low, his fingers moving treacherously slowly. The other hand moved behind him, wrenching down his shirt, so goosebumps erupted on his back and shoulders.

"Y-yes," he stammered.

"Do you want me to touch you?" his hand crept up his chest, a thumb brushing against an erect nipple.

"Yes, _fuck_, Jim _please," _Sherlock begged.

"God," Jim groaned, "I love it when you beg." Then he moved his hands abruptly away, and Sherlock opened his eyes, his lips parted, his chest rising and falling rapidly with his pants.

"W-what—"

"I want you on your knees," Jim growled. "Now." He slid off his lap, and Sherlock couldn't move for a few seconds as his wanting cock throbbed painfully.

"B-ut—"

"_Knees, _Sherlock, now. If you're good I'll let you come. Now."

Sherlock scrambled to get down on the floor, falling to his knees in front of Jim, who had sat back down on the sofa, his legs spread wide. Jim smirked as he watched Sherlock fumbling with the zipper, tugging down his jeans and his briefs, taking his cock in his mouth without a word.

"_Yes_," Jim hissed, gripping his hair to push him deeper. Sherlock almost choked, but he didn't take his lips away. He moved down Jim's shaft, taking him deep into his throat, just like he liked it. It was almost basic instinct inside him, to please Jim. To get down on his knees and let him fuck his mouth when he wanted. Something at the back of his mind would tell him that he was better than this, that he deserved more. But Sherlock shut that down because he knew that wasn't true. This is what he needed. This is what he _deserved_.

Jim thrust into his mouth, his fingers digging painfully in his scalp. "_Sherlock_, fuck, _yeah," _he groaned. "_Yeah, _just like_...fuck_...just like that..."

He came in his mouth, as always, and Jim had some serious kink for seeing his own ejaculate run down Sherlock's mouth, so he drew his lips away, looking up at Jim from beneath his lashes, slowly wiping it off.

Jim smiled crookedly at him. "What a good little pet I have," he murmured. "Do you want me to fuck you now?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, putting his hands on Jim's thighs. Jim stroked his hair almost tenderly.

"Beg me," he purred.

"_Please. _Please, Jim. Fuck me."

"Good boy." He stood up, kicking his jeans off his ankles. He stood next to Sherlock, who was breathing heavily with desire, and pushed his shirt off his shoulders so it fell to the floor. He ran a hand down his flushed skin. Reaching the waistline of his jeans, he dug the condom packet he always kept from his pocket, unwrapping it and rolling it on to himself. He put his hands on Sherlock's hips again, bringing the zip of his trousers down and tugging them and his boxers off, so they hung around his thighs. He lifted his gaze to Sherlock, who was momentarily dazed by the sight of Jim's leaking cock.

"Look at you," Jim murmured against his throat. "You're so needy. Like a fucking whore."

Sherlock felt his mouth go dry at his words, whether because of disgust or because it made him hot, he wasn't sure. He was too far gone by now, every fibre of his being screaming for Jim's touch, screaming to be fucked hard and fast against the wall. He wanted it. He _needed _it.

Jim pressed a quick, hard kiss to his lips, before grasping his hips and turning him around, slamming him hard against the opposite wall. Pain flared across his chest.

"Bend for me," he whispered, and Sherlock complied, bracing himself against the wall by his palms, spreading his legs as far as he could. He rarely used lube, whether just to hurt Sherlock more, or whether he just didn't care, he didn't know.

Jim kissed the nape of his neck, his cock teasing his entrance. He bit down hard on Sherlock's shoulder, his hands grabbing his hips as he shoved himself inside.

Sherlock made a noise half between a scream and a whimper, and Jim began to fuck him, his movements unrefined and hard and rough. Sherlock gritted his teeth, determined to enjoy it, as Jim whispered filthy things in his ear while he drove into him again and again, fucking him without restraint.

"_Fuck, Sherlock," _Jim grunted, an arm wrapping around his torso to impale himself closer inside Sherlock. He gasped and writhed and moaned, trying to control the whimpers of pain that escaped him lips from Jim ploughing at him without really caring that he was hurting Sherlock.

_This is good for me. This is good for me, _he repeated to himself, over and over, until Jim spent himself inside him, collapsing against his shoulder as he rode his orgasm out.

"Good boy," Jim whispered in his ear, his body trembling. "Tell me you liked that, Sherlock."

"I—liked that," Sherlock said, panting heavily, trying to ignore the pain that Jim had left in his wake.

"Oh don't be _boring_," Jim muttered, peeling himself away from Sherlock. "You like it when I hurt you, don't you?" He grabbed his shoulders and turned him around, his back against the wall. "You _like _it, Sherlock. Don't lie to yourself."

"Y-yes," Sherlock said, his voice trembling slightly. "I do." But he couldn't help _thinking_, wondering- what it would be like to have someone make love to him instead of fucking him mindlessly like an animal. A face crossed his eyes.

_No,_ he thought. _Don't go there. You _definitely _don't deserve _him.

* * *

><p>"So, will you help me?" Sebastian asked, leaning back against the chair, fixing his tie nervously.<p>

Sherlock tried to look disinterested, as if he didn't care much for Sebastian's little problem. But the truth was that he was intrigued. Very much so.

He rolled the cigarette between his fingers, not looking at him. "Well, it doesn't _sound _boring," he mused.

Sebastian Wilkes leaned forward, his palms on the table. "Sherlock, I really need your help," he said, rather desperately. "This could be my chance for a promotion."

He looked at him, then, enjoying the sight of Sebastian grovelling before him. It had hardly been a year since university, and now Sebastian was almost on his knees in front of him.

_Oh, how the tables have turned._

"And you're assuming that my incentive would be to ensure you a promotion?" Sherlock exhaled some smoke. "You must think very highly of me."

Sebastian gave a short, hysterical chuckle, chugging down the expensive wine like water. The restaurant was fancy. Surely trying to impress him. Suit was well made, but not for him. Borrowed from someone. Brother, maybe. Sebastian's successful, rich brother, judging from the look of that suit. It couldn't be a friend. Sebastian had rich, important friends, but no one he was so close as to borrow a suit from. Then... _ah_. Sibling rivalry. Who does mummy love best? Sherlock could hardly contain his glee.

"I know that you're liking this," he half-hissed. "Me, begging you. But look, it won't be a waste of your time. You used to do all that shit at uni, you could direct it towards something useful for a change."

Sherlock smirked. "Insulting me won't sway me, Sebastian."

He noticed the way he bristled and gritted his teeth, with almost sadistic pleasure. "I'm sorry," he spat out with some difficulty. "I really need you. _Please_."

Rather gratifying to see someone else begging for a change, Sherlock thought.

"Very well," he said, flicking ash off the tip of the cigarette right onto the expensive tablecloth. "I'll come around and see what I can do." He smiled crookedly. "After all, you said _please_."

His cheeks visibly colour at the comment. "L-look. Do you think you'll be able to do this for me without bringing all of that up? That's in the past, right?"

Sherlock let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "_In the past_," he snorted. "How quaint." He stood up, then, taking his coat from the back of his chair. "I've only agreed to _help _you, _Seb_," he used he old nickname slowly, mockingly. "My silence, however, is another matter," he leaned forward, bringing his face close next to Sebastian's. "Not very nice to be on the other side of the deal is it?"

Sebastian gulped. "Sherl—"

"I'll see you later," he leaned back, turned around, and walked away.

The euphoria passed soon. It didn't take long to make him feel sick. It didn't make him feel good. It just made him feel like a monster.

Again.

* * *

><p>John didn't know whether fate was immensely kind or just plain cruel.<p>

It had been three days since he had met Sherlock Holmes. Three days of restless nights and guilt and bitterness, wondering how he could have hurt someone so easily.

Three days of wondering why he couldn't get those silver eyes out of his head, of mulling ceaselessly over who he was, where he had come from, why he was how he was. He was longing to see him again, he really was, to apologise (once again) and ask him if he wouldn't like to have some coffee again? And this time he'd be quiet and not ask questions and just _listen _to what he had to say, to let him speak in that deep, velvety voice.

He wanted to go on lots of coffee dates with that bloke. Well, not _dates, _per se, but he wanted to make it up to him.

Three days of knowing he would never get the chance.

And now _this_.

He was just sitting in a cafe, inside, since it was blisteringly cold outside, drinking tea, alone. There was that pretty girl at work, Mary, and she was _interested_, he knew. But he had no intention of leading her on.

So there he was, drinking the tea, when he saw him. Across the street. Standing in front of the huge bank across the street.

He wasn't going inside, just standing there, looking up at the building, as if he was calculating something. It took John all of three seconds to confirm that it was _him, _it couldn't be anyone else; and he was off. He left his tea there, ramming through the doors and almost killing himself on the traffic, but he caught him. Just in time.

Sherlock didn't seem to be aware of the commotion that was happening around him, so he looked rather shocked when John tapped on his shoulder and he turned around.

"Hi," John said, panting, dropping his hand from his shoulder.

He was just as gorgeous as he remembered. Slender, (maybe a bit too much for his own good) pale- the wind having whipped some colour into his cheeks, a dark tumble of curls framing his angular, elegant face. Silver eyes. Beautiful eyes, ringed with dark circles.

"John," was all he said, his brow furrowed, his pale pink lips forming a small 'oh' of astonishment. "Y-you're here." He didn't seem very sure of himself. John had certainly derailed him.

He was wrapped up in an expensive-looking trench coat, the collar turned up against the wind. It made him look almost...romantic. Unearthly. Out of his reach, as it were.

"Yes, it's me." John brushed a hand nervously through his hair. "Hello."

People passed them on the sidewalk. Neither of them said anything for a few seconds.

"What are you doing here?" he finally asked, stiffly, standing up straighter, regaining that cold air of indifference that surrounded him.

John raised an eyebrow. "Well, I _do _live in London, you know," he answered. "I could ask you the same thing."

The corner of his lip twitched. "Touché," he licked his lips. "Well, I'm just visiting the bank," he waved dismissively at the monolith of glass and steel in front of them.

John's jaw dropped a little. "Here?" he rubbed the back of his neck. The conversation seemed almost inane, after their last heated confrontation. He didn't know whether Sherlock was doing it on purpose, or if that had meant little to him. The latter possibility hurt him a little.

"Yes," then he bit his lip, almost nervously. "I'm actually here to help out a friend...with a problem. You could- uh—" he cleared his throat. "You could join me, if you'd like."

John couldn't help the slight flutter in his chest. _Yes. Yes, I want to join you. I want to spend as much time as possible with you because I've seen you for all of five minutes and now I am obsessed with you_.

"What sort of help?" John asked. The middle of the sidewalk was hardly the place to have a conversation, but the people seemed to be walking in a wide arc around them, as if Sherlock and John were in a warm, private bubble of their own.

Sherlock cocked his head to one side, smirking. "I could _tell _you. But I'd much rather show you."

John felt that curiosity flare up in him again. _Who was he? What did he do? _A peek into the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes.

"Okay," John agreed.

* * *

><p>"I'm here to see Sebastian Wilkes," Sherlock said, his long, slender fingers splayed across the glass countertop. John took a moment longer than necessary to admire those fingers.<p>

The secretary looked at the both of them, her eyebrow raised slightly, before professionalism kicked in and she said, "Yes, of course." John didn't blame her. He was obviously not their usual clientele, and although Sherlock looked posh enough to be here, _he _certainly didn't.

"John, can I borrow your phone?" he asked, as they followed the secretary down a plush, well lighted hallway.

"You want to tell me why I'm here?" John asked him, handing him his phone.

"You'll see soon enough," Sherlock said vaguely, quickly texting something on the phone and handing it back to John. "And I know you're worrying about the last time we met. Don't."

John turned to him, his mouth falling open. He had literally just thrown that in John's face, when he least expected it. "I—" he started, but Sherlock held a finger to his lips, gesturing at the door the secretary had stopped in front of.

She opened it for them and they entered a small-ish, but well maintained office. The furniture was expensive, but few.

At the desk, a tall, pale man with a receding hairline and slightly crooked teeth stood up at the sight of them, the momentary hesitation on his face morphing into one of cool, but not very well held-together confidence.

"Thank you, Sharona," he told the secretary, as she closed the door behind them.

"Sebastian," Sherlock nodded curtly at him walking up to the desk, pulling out a chair gracefully and sitting down on it. John followed suit, feeling extremely out of his depth and extremely curious.

The man named Sebastian looked a bit confused at the sudden appearance of John. He opened his mouth to ask, probably, but Sherlock held up a hand to silence him.

"Please don't waste time by asking me questions. This is John Watson," he said brusquely, waving a hand at John.

Both eyebrows went up, a sceptical expression crossing his face. "And uh, he's—"

"That's all you need to know. How was your lunch date with Sharona?"

John turned around to frown at him. Sebastian himself looked venomous for a split second before he pulled his face into an expression of barely polite interest.

"Oh, ha-ha," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Don't tell me, we've got matching stains of ketchup on our clothes, or something."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I merely had a conversation with her."

Sebastian looked at John then, his smile widening, perhaps becoming a little too sadistic. "We went to Uni together," he said, probably meaning it as an explanation. "This bloke," he jutted his chin towards Sherlock, "could tell you who you'd been shagging the previous night by looking at your clothes. Thought he was a freak. Everyone hated him," he finished rather maliciously.

John's lip curled in disgust at the sight of glee on the pallid face. He immediately detested him. He didn't care what he had to say about Sherlock, all he knew was that he needed to clutch the fabric at his trousers to prevent himself from landing a punch on his jaw.

Sherlock himself tensed beside him, his fist landing rather loudly on the table. "_Sebastian," _he spat out. "Do you think _maybe _you could stop wasting my time and just show me what the problem is? Or do you not need my help?"

John couldn't help the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth at the way the colour drained from Sebastian's face.

"Yes, yes," he said, hurriedly. "Yes, come on. Sorry."

* * *

><p>"You didn't speak to his secretary," John told him as they were following Sebastian up a wide stair case. "You just did that to annoy him, didn't you?"<p>

Sherlock gave a slight chuckle. "You're more clever than I give you credit for, John Watson."

John smiled, cheeks flaming at the unexpected (rather veiled) compliment. "Thank you...I think. But all those things that he said. Can you actually do that?"

Sherlock gave a shrug.

"I knew you were a medical student the first day I saw you. I know, now, that you've got an alcoholic brother and you're looking for a flat share. You've had a rough couple of months, fell out with your family."

John stopped walking, his heart hammering. A mixture of shock, fascination, and yes, slight irritation bubbled in the pit of his stomach. "How the _hell _can you know all of that, from barely a day?"

Sherlock just smiled enigmatically and continued to go up. _Okay_, John thought. _You'll have to tell me eventually. _

They reached the top floors of the bank, where Sebastian was waiting for them impatiently.

"Yes, thank you for finally gracing me with you presence," he muttered, as they walked up to where he was standing, in the midst of the worker's desks. Some of them looked up inquisitively, but the rest of them carried on.

"Look, right over there," Sebastian said, leading them down a bit further through the rows of desks, until they were able to see an office at the back. John wondered again what exactly Sebastian expected him to do. Then he noticed the large portrait placed above the desk, an untidy line of yellow paint splashed across it.

Sherlock's features suddenly grew alight with curiosity, a hungry, excited expression on his face as he looked at it.

"It's obviously a message," he said, more to himself than anyone else. "But who is it _for?"_

Sebastian looked expectantly at him. "So, will you take the case?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow to look at him, as if he had just noticed him for the first. "Oh. Yeah, I'll take it. Go away now." He waved a hand dismissively. "John and I will take care of it."

Sebastian looked slightly affronted, but he nodded. "Okay. Thanks. Yeah. Er. Bye." He nodded jerkily at John, then walked away.

Sherlock stood there for few more seconds, then whipped away with a sudden dramatic swirl of coat. John didn't know whether to follow him or not, so he stood there instead, watching him. He didn't seem to leaving; he was weaving in and out of the desks, poking his head out of corners, suddenly going down on his knees and then getting up just as quickly, his eyes locked on the portrait. He muttered to himself as he did so, completely oblivious of the looks the workers were giving him. John almost chuckled at the comical sight, as curious as he was to what was _going on_.

Sherlock was finally done with...whatever he was doing, moving out of the desks and towards John. Without stopping he turned, making a little hand gesture at John which probably meant for him to follow. John complied. He could feel smugness radiating off him in waves, clear evidence of a victory displaying itself in the smirk playing in the corners of his mouth.

Yes, but _what _victory? He thought, as they went down the stairs.

When they reached the foot, Sherlock heaved a great sigh, turning towards him, hands in the pockets of his coat. "Okay," he said resolutely, silvery eyes scanning his face. "You've got questions."

"Yeah," John replied, immediately. "What did we just do?"

"An investigation. Next."

"An investigation? For what? What did that bloke want?"

"Someone's come and defaced that portrait. Sebastian was just smart enough to know that it wasn't just a random splash of paint. Someone with criminal intent did that, and I don't mean simple vandalism. He called on me for my services because he thinks I'll be able to catch whoever did this. And rightly so."

"So you're a..." John licked his lips. "A _detective_?"

"I wouldn't go quite so far as to say _that," _Sherlock muttered. "Just very clever. I've helped the police a couple of times, sure. But they never really asked for my help on those occasions. That didn't stop them from arresting who I told them to arrest, though." He smiled crookedly. "And...next?"

John nodded as if this all made perfect sense to him. "Okay. Okay, sure." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay- yeah. When you—"

"When I informed you about your alcoholic brother and your family problems," Sherlock finished for him.

"_Yes_," John nodded. "You owe me an explanation. How the hell can you tell me all that when you've barely known me for what...a day?" John raised an eyebrow.

"I saw that it in five minutes," Sherlock said, turning around to face him. "And all you have to do is observe."

John crossed his arms over his chest. "Oh? Is that so? Tell me, then. Sherlock Holmes. How did you _observe _all of that in..._five _minutes?"

Sherlock smirked, walking up to him. When he was an inch away, he slipped his hand into the pocket of John's jeans, nearly giving John a heart attack from the almost intimate contact, extracting his phone. He held it in those elegant fingers, a frown marring his brow.

"You're living in London on an intern's salary. Of course you're looking for a flat share. You clearly don't live with anyone yet, one look at your exhausted face and the state of your clothes would tell you that. You don't seem like the kind of person who would live with just _anyone_." Sherlock cracked his neck a bit, now moving around him in a slow circle. John felt his gaze on him, and he couldn't move. Paralysed by his relentless silver eyes like a deer caught in headlights, as cliché as that sounded.

"And here's your phone. Email enabled, MP3 player. Expensive. You're looking for a flat share, hardly got any money, you wouldn't waste it on something like this. Gift, then. Scratches- not one, many. It's been kept in the same pocket as coins and keys. You wouldn't treat your one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy—you know it already," he held up the phone to John's face, turning it over so he could see the back. "The engraving. Harry Watson, mmm. Not you father, this is a young man's gadget. Maybe a cousin, but you're looking for someone to live with, unlikely you've got any family here in London, definitely not any you'd be close to. So brother it is. Now..._Clara. _Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. Expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend. It's been given to you recently, it's hardly six months old. I imagine there's trouble then. Six months old and he's just given it away? If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do, sometimes. Sentiment. No, he wanted to get_ rid_ of it. _He_ left _her_. He gave the phone to you, which means he wants to stay in touch. And here you are, looking for cheap accommodation, and you won't go to your brother for help. Maybe you liked his wife. Maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How can you _possibly _know about the drinking?" John asked, his voice low and rough.

"Shot in the dark, but a good one. Power connection. Look at the scruff marks at the edge of it. Every night he plugs it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. Never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them." He finished off with only a slight smirk, as if he was trying to be all modest about it.

John felt the words slip out of his mouth before he could stop himself. "That was brilliant."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, that pretty blush creeping along his skin again. "Do you really think so?" his voice had a teensy bit of desperation to it. Not many people would have been able to see it. John did.

"Yes, it was. That was...quite...amazing." And it _was_. John Watson now found himself face to face with an absolute genius.

Sherlock gave a little smile, now turning and walk towards the doors. John followed.

"Not what most people say," he muttered vaguely.

"Oh?" John asked, as they stepped outside the massive doors and into the cold air. "What do most people say?"

Sherlock chuckled, tightening the dark blue scarf that hung around his neck. "_Piss off."_

John burst out laughing.

Sherlock stared at him for a few seconds, smile tugging at his lips. "You think it's funny?"

"No, no," John said shakily, wiping his eyes. "I'm just imaging the situation—god, yes. It's hilarious."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, smile still playing on his lips. "Whatever."

"But you made one mistake." It was John's turn to smirk now.

Both of Sherlock's dark eyebrows went up. "Oh?" he said, trying to look nonchalant. John found it adorable.

"Harry is short for Harriet."

Sherlock stared at him for a few seconds. "Harry is your sister," he said slowly.

John literally giggled at the comical expression of disappointment on his face. "Yep."

Sherlock scowled at him. "_Sister_," he repeated. "There's always something."

John chuckled, turning up the collar of his own coat. "So...what are you going to do now?"

Sherlock's frustrated expression softened at the question. His lips quirked up in a crooked smile.

"_Me? I'm _not doing anything. _We_, however...are going to break into a building." He lips turned up at the expression on John's face. Then he walked to the edge of the sidewalk, raising his arm to quickly hail a taxi. "Unless you don't want to, of course," he finished rather quietly, a hint of nervousness to his voice as he stepped in.

John blindly tumbled in after them, and once the door was closed, he asked, "Break into a building?" Of course he wanted to. In any case, it was his day off. And what a way to spend it.

"Yep," Sherlock agreed, pulling out a name tag from the depths of his coat. "Not many Eddie Van Coons in your regular phone book. The slash was a message intended for him. That's what I was looking for when I was looking at it from different points. I saw you. You thought I'd gone mad. But no, I had a reason. And now we're going to find out _why _they were targeting him." He rubbed his hands together gleefully. "God, it's been _weeks_."

"You do this often, then?"

"The cases? No. Hardly get any good ones. Breaking into people's house...well..." he gave a slight shrug. "When the need arises." He looked at John, eyes bright, wolfish grin on his face.

"Knew you were trouble when I met you," John replied, grinning right back.

_**OoO**_

_**So tell me how long, before the last one?**_

_**And tell me how long, before the right one?**_

_**The story is old- I know.**_

_**But it goes on.**_

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><p><strong>Reviews are deeply appreciated. Thank you so much for reading. :)<strong>


	4. High and Dry

**There will be no more updates on this story until March 31st.**

**On a brighter note, reviews fuel the fic, so please tell me what you think!**

**BTW. This isn't a casefic, it's more centered around emotional development, but I'm playing around a bit with TBB. Deductions are not my forte, so if you see something silly, feel free to let me know. **

**I apologise for typos. This fic is neither proof read or brit-picked. So, er...PM me if you see something that sounds stupid.**

**Warnings: Mention of substance abuse**

**Disclaimer: Don't own BBC Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, any variation of it at all. Those divine rights belong to Sir ACD, and Moftiss.**

* * *

><p>:4:<p>

_**Flying on your motorcycle, watching all the ground beneath you drop.**_

_**You'd kill yourself for recognition, kill yourself to never, ever stop.**_

_**You broke another mirror-**_

_**You're turning into something you are not.**_

_**OoO**_

Temptation, Sherlock thought, was a terrible thing.

It crept up on you, slowly. Spreading its insidious tentacles around your throat while you indulged yourself, seemingly unaware that all the while it was slowly strangling you.

Temptation blinded you. It clouded your judgement. It made you think that you could do things and use things when you didn't deserve even a molecule of it.

And despite his belief that he was terribly clever, Sherlock was being a fool and showing off and drawing John into his web like Jim would do. He was being _selfish_, tainting John with his toxicity and wasting his time because Sherlock did not _deserve _this. This casual conversation, John being _nice, _because if John _knew _who Sherlock was and what he did, would he still be sitting so close to him? He'd be disgusted, and flee in the other direction because that's what people _did._

But no. John Watson was _confusing_, and Sherlock realised that he had finally encountered a problem he could not solve, and it was driving him mad.

And he was _attracted _to him. There it was, coiled deep in the pit of his stomach, the need to grab him and kiss him. What would John do, he wondered, if Sherlock simply leaned forward and caught those lips in his own? Would he part them and allow Sherlock to slip his tongue inside? Would he grab the collars of his coat and pull him closer and _moan _his name? What noises did John Watson make, Sherlock wondered, when he was being kissed by someone who knew how to kiss?

And Sherlock knew he didn't just want to _kiss _him. Sherlock wanted to peel him, layer by layer, strip him bare until he discovered what made John Watson tick. And this, this went _deeper _that anything else he had felt before, and it terrified him.

"Sherlock?" John's voice asked, pulling him out of his dark thoughts.

He turned to him, surprised, realising that John had been calling his name for a while. His brow was furrowed, dark blue eyes a mixture of concern and curiosity. Curiosity, understandable.

_Concern_? _Why_?

"Sorry," he said quickly, rubbing a hand over his eyes, as if to scratch away the images that had been dancing in front of him. "Sorry, I must have drifted off." Sherlock could have laughed. He didn't _drift off._

John looked unconvinced. He gazed at him for a second or two before turning away to look outside the window. The wind had ruffled his hair, and Sherlock found himself controlling the urge to move forward and pat it into place.

"Thinking about the case?" John asked, off-handedly, still looking outside.

Sherlock frowned. "What—" _Oh. The case. Of course. Yellow paint. Eddie Van Coon. Message. Shady, very shady. And oh, so promising. _"The case. No, we need to get to Van Coon first." He morphed his features quickly into a confident smile. It was more of a smirk, and Sherlock would usually use it seductively, but he used it on John, without thinking, and he cursed himself, because John's cheeks visibly flushed. Damn it. John Watson had the most adorable blush he had ever seen, and the thing was that he had _no right _to see that blush, to elicit it. John Watson was supposed to be out-of-bounds for him. And here he was, _flirting_.

John cleared his throat loudly, looking away from him, nodding. "Yeah, of course. Premature evaluations and all that." He drummed his fingers on his jean clad thigh, and Sherlock looked at him, cataloguing his features, because really, he didn't know if he'd see him again after today, and John was a gold mine of _data_, and he needed to catalogue it all, just for the sake of his sanity. He couldn't let all that data that made up John Watson go to waste.

"So what we're doing...it's not entirely legal, is it?" John finally asked.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, mouth twitching in spite of himself. _Clever John Watson_. "Well. Not the whole operation, no," he answered honestly. Because he was lying too much as it is, and he needed to be honest. "Don't worry, though. I'm far too thorough to get arrested. And you can pretend that it was all my diabolical plan," he grinned, trying for some humour. That's what people did, didn't they? He wondered if he could make John Watson laugh. He wondered what John looked like in the throes of mirth, laughing at something clever that _Sherlock _had said. "You can say that I lured you there under false pretences, et cetera, et cetera. In any case, you don't look like the sort of bloke with criminal intent. No offense, of course."

John lets out a short laugh. He looked beautiful. Since when had he noticed things like that? What was this man _doing _to him? "Am I supposed to take that as a compliment?"

"It's a _fact_. I have no clue whether it's a compliment or not. Ah, look. We're here."

It was a tall, fancy looking building, and it wasn't that difficult to get in.

John raised an eyebrow at him when he was done talking to the new tenants, a slightly impressed look on his face. John was _impressed. _With _him_. How had this day suddenly become so fantastic?

"You sounded so polite," John mused. "I never knew you had it in you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Etiquette is such a _farce_, John," he snorted in reply.

* * *

><p>John was determined to not be disturbed by this entire debacle. He wasn't disturbed by Sherlock, not exactly, no. It was probably something to do with the fact that they had just broken into someone's flat, and he <em>wasn't <em>disturbed by it.

Sherlock slid into the apartment with easy grace, immediately leaving John's side to move stealthily along the room, head twisting and turning to catch every nugget of information he possibly could, from the furniture and the walls and everything he set his eyes on.

Sherlock, thought John, was _beautiful_.

And then he cursed himself, because Sherlock was _taken_, by that terrible boyfriend of his who didn't care at all for him, and then John felt sick.

Sherlock was beautiful in the way he moved- John couldn't help _looking-_ and in the way those luminescent eyes took in everything around him. Sherlock looked in his element, so much more sure of himself that John had seen him previously. His brow was furrowed in concentration, eyes narrowed, and John could see the _thoughts _swirling in them, ceaselessly deducing, cataloguing, _thinking, thinking, thinking. _He never seemed to stop.

Although he'll admit that he wasn't expecting the dead body.

"Oh," Sherlock exclaimed when he saw it, the suit clad man sprawled on the bed with blood drying on his temple. "_Oh."_

John was used to seeing dead bodies, so used to them that he wished he _wasn't _used to them, but there was something about seeing the pale corpse on the bed so suddenly that threw him a little. Sherlock had no such reservations. He stood in front of the bed, gazing down at the body, fingers reaching up to scratch the faint stubble on his chin as he looked at it.

"Well," John said, because he thought he _should _say something. "A dead body. Wasn't expecting that."

"No?" Sherlock asked absent-mindedly, not looking at him. "I was. This just keeps getting better and better."

"Bet- _what_?" John raised an eyebrow at him. "That man is dead."

"Excellent deduction, John," he replied, dead-pan. "Now, what is your opinion?"

"My opinion?" John asked him, trying not to concentrate overly on the way Sherlock's tongue darted out to wet his lips when he cast a look in John's direction.

"Mm," Sherlock mumbled, turning back to the body. "You _are _a doctor, aren't you?"

"I'm an _intern_," John insisted, but he looked at the body all the same. "Mid thirties. Dead for what—six to eight hours, I'd say. From the gun shot wound? And the gun in his hand would indicate—a suicide?"

Sherlock didn't reply, dropping to his knees instead, eyes scanning the body while his fingers drummed on his black denim-clad thigh. Those _fingers_, thought John, wondering what they'd feel like against his skin, running down the side of his face, his neck—

"Not a suicide," he said.

"But the door was locked from the inside," John replied, in a high-pitched voice.

"Exactly." He stood up. "Lestrade and his team should be here soon." Sherlock stood up then, crouching over the body, bringing his face as close as possible without touching it. "The graphitti is the key," he muttered, eyes narrowed. "Why was it _painted_? There must have been some other form of communication, yes?"

"Maybe...he wasn't answering?"

Sherlock acknowledged him with a brief twitch of his lips. "Oh good, you follow."

John shook his head. "Eh. No."

"What kind of message does everyone try to avoid?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow at John, eyes full of wry amusement under those long lashes. "_Bills_."

And that was when John heard a great deal of commotion outside, the sound of several footsteps and raised voices, and a man walked into the room, along with several other people who only cast a cursory glance in their direction before spreading out in the flat. _NSY._

"Sherlock." the man said, looking at the both of them, but then he shook his head and said, "I _knew_ it would be you," he muttered to himself. He looked like he was in his mid forties, with brown hair streaked liberally with grey, an exasperated, tired expression, and John didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to know the police had just walked in.

Then the officer looked at him.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked, looking honestly confused.

Sherlock had finally decided to join the conversation, and John was glad, because he was starting to feel the beginnings of panic. He just got a job, he didn't want to be arrested for _house-breaking_.

"This is John," Sherlock said, by way of introduction, standing up and sweeping around dramatically. "Ah, Lestrade, finally," he drawled. "Yard finally realised there's been a murder? I was wondering when you'd come along."

The police officer named Lestrade frowned at Sherlock, looking quite lost. "John?" he repeated, seemingly ignoring the fact that Sherlock was most definitely not supposed to be here. He looked at John, and then looked at Sherlock, who was watching the proceedings with an expression of detached interest.

"John Watson. He's with me," Sherlock finally said, curtly, signalling the end of the conversation.

"Right," Lestrade said slowly, looking thoroughly unconvinced. Then he shook his head slightly. "I was told there'd been a break in by a hysterical woman from downstairs, and she described you, and I knew it'd be you. So I brought in the team, because I knew there would also be a murder. But never mind. How are you?" he addressed Sherlock, looking concerned, brown eyes running down Sherlock's body, as if assessing him for injuries. John wondered how close the both of them would be for Lestrade to casually ignore the fact that someone had complained about _house-breaking_, and the house breakers in question were right here in front of him, and he seemed absolutely unconcerned about this.

"I'm alive and kicking," Sherlock said dryly. "As you can see."

"You're sober," Lestrade said, uncertainly, as if he wasn't quite sure of it. _Sober_? Sober...alcohol? Drugs? Sherlock glanced in John's direction once, then looked back at Lestrade, a scowl marring his mouth. Of course. _Addiction_. That would explain...

"_Evidently_," he snapped. "Though I doubt this is relevant to the investigation. That's why you're here, I hope?" he raised a mocking eyebrow at Lestrade.

"Your brother is worried sick."

"My _brother_," Sherlock snorted. "Now you're going to talk about my _brother_?" And there was so much bitterness in Sherlock's voice that John instinctively reached out and grabbed his wrist, as if to calm him down. Sherlock flinched only slightly, looking down at John, eyes narrowed.

Lestrade noticed the gesture, but didn't say anything, just sighed and said, "Right of course, the investigation."

"_Now _you're interested in that," Sherlock said scathingly, wrenching himself out of John's grasp and walking right out of the room.

That left John and Lestrade alone in the room, and John decided to shake his hand, because he was feeling extremely awkward and worried about Sherlock and he needed to do something with his hands that didn't involve Sherlock.

"Hi. I'm John. But he already told you that, so..." he trailed off uncertainly.

"Hi. Greg Lestrade. So...do I want to know what..." he made a vague gesture in the direction Sherlock had went, "This is?"

John gave him a wan smile. "I just met him a few days ago. But incidentally, is that all you're worried about? Not...you know...the fact that we broke into a flat?"

Greg's lips twitched. "Do you _want _to get arrested?"

"No, no," John said hurriedly. "I just. Er." John realised he had no idea what to say. This entire day was becoming stranger by the minute.

"Sherlock does this appallingly often, I'll have you know. He'll investigate and he'll tell me who did it, and he'll be okay for a few days. And then—" but he suddenly stopped talking, abruptly clearing his throat and looking away from John. "And then he'll...er...you know. Get bored again. Until the next thing comes up."

"You seem to know him well," John ventured, because Greg was talking about _Sherlock_, and he would take anything he got.

"I know his brother," Lestrade said dryly. "Do you think anyone _knows _Sherlock?" he quirked an eyebrow at him.

"I..." John had no idea what to say to that, because it was true. Painfully so. He didn't know Sherlock at all, and yet here he was. Who _did _know him? The bloke he lived with? The bloke who hadn't been there at the hospital when Sherlock had _cut his own wrist_?

"Would the both of you quit the small talk and pay attention to the _murder_?" Sherlock called from the other room, interrupting his acidic thoughts.

"And that's my call," Lestrade said wryly, bringing an end to the uncomfortable conversation, and marched out of the room.

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the sitting room, long-fingered hands in front of his mouth, his rough-and-tumble curls falling over his forehead as he narrowed his eyes in thought. His coat was discarded on the floor, as was his scarf so John took the chance to admire him, the skinny jeans riding low on his hips, and the obscenely tight black shirt, and he looked up, just a peek of skin above the collar of Sherlock's shirt, smudged with black and purple and red, as if—as if—were those _bruises_?

"Murder?" Lestrade asked uncertainly. "Isn't it a suicide? Seems like the only explanation of all the facts." John cleared his throat, looking away from Sherlock. He hoped he hadn't noticed. _Bruises. Bruises on his _skin. _Surely it isn't—it can't..._

Sherlock looked at Lestrade as though he had never met anyone so stupid before. "Don't be an idiot, Lestrade." Sherlock hissed. "It's _one _possible explanation of _some _of the facts."

Lestrade looked unperturbed by this insult. John gathered it was probably because Sherlock insulted him that way on a daily basis. "Okay, hit me." he asked.

"Gunshot wound on the right side, or did you not notice? And the victim is clearly left handed." He began to pace the sitting room, causing the investigating team to shoot him annoyed glances. John didn't blame them. "Locked doors. Locked windows. The soap in the bathroom..." he muttered to himself, making no sense at all to him.

"How do you know he's left handed?" Lestrade asked.

"Oh please," Sherlock scoffed, turning to him swiftly. "I'm amazed you didn't notice. You just have to _look around_," he pointed to random things in the room, speaking in a constant stream of deductions which were only slightly difficult to follow. "Coffee table on the left hand side, coffee mug handle pointing to the left, power sockets- habitually used the ones on the left, pen and paper on the left hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right and took down notes with his left. _Elementary_," he raised an eyebrow at Lestrade. "Should I go on?"

"Sherlock," John said warningly. "I think you've—"

"Oh, I might as well, I'm always at the bottom of the list." Sherlock said off handedly, gesturing to the remains of breakfast in the kitchenette. "There's a knife on the breadboard with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left. Now tell me, how exactly would a left-handed man shoot himself on the right side of his head? Conclusion, somebody broke in and murdered him." Sherlock glared at them all, challenging them to say anything else. Which they couldn't, of course. Sherlock's logic was as perfect as he was. Wait. He didn't say—

"Okay," Lestrade murmured. "Fine. But the door's locked from the inside. So how did the murderer get in?"

"Finally," Sherlock said under his breath, turning around to gaze out of the window. "You're asking the right questions."

"So—"

"So do whatever you think you need to do," Sherlock said flippantly, turning around just as swiftly, and picking his coat up from the floor. "I doubt it will help you make any progress, but it will help you feel useful. Come along, John, we have things to do." Then he started to walk off.

"Wait, Sherlock!" Lestrade called after him, and John followed him, because Sherlock had said 'come along, John', and what else could John do at that point but to come along?

Sherlock was waiting impatiently by the elevator, hands in his pockets, ratty converse sneakers tapping against the floor. He raised an eyebrow at Lestrade and John as they walked up to him, eyes turning a bit frigid when they looked at Lestrade.

"What do you _want_?" he snapped. "Have you had fun telling John all about me? Thank God Anderson isn't here, he'd have had a lovely time."

"I haven't told him anything," Lestrade replied calmly. "And could you relax?"

Sherlock made a dismissive noise, turning away from Lestrade, a hopelessly immature attempt to ignore him. John wondered what he _possibly _could be hiding for him to be so worried about it. He did that thing again, the _touching_ Sherlock, partly because he wanted to touch him, and partly because it seemed to calm him down.

"I'm calm," Sherlock answered, shifting subtly closer to John. So subtly that Sherlock might not have noticed it himself.

"Look," Lestrade said resolutely. "It's been weeks. I'm really glad to see you. I'm not your brother, I don't have cameras following your every move. So I don't know what you're up to. But I do worry. Call me every once in a while, yeah? Just to tell me you're alive. If you need help. I don't have to be on duty to help you then, Sherlock." And he looked meaningfully at Sherlock, conveying a message that John wished he understood.

"I don't need help," Sherlock replied, and the doors slid open. "Oh, look, time for you to go home."

"Sherlock, I mean it," Lestrade repeated. "I know you don't always go to your brother—"

"I _never _go to my brother."

"Yes, okay, never mind. But if you need help. I'm here, alright? And, it was nice to see you with someone," he gave a tired smile to John and patted his shoulder, before stepping into the elevator. "And don't worry, I won't tell your brother."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and made an _ugh _noise of disgust, before pressing the buttons so the doors would shut. "Goodbye, Lestrade," he muttered.

* * *

><p><em>Tedious<em>, Sherlock thought. They day had been going so _well_, with John being impressed and smiling at him, and then Lestrade had to be _tedious_ and let slip so many hints that either John was just dull, or he was purposely ignoring the evidence in front of him.

"What exactly was that about?" John asked, leaning his back against the marble as they waited for the elevator to come back up.

_There it is. Lie? Lie. _"Nothing you should be concerned about," he muttered. _You're such a filthy liar, Sherlock Holmes. _

"I know we just met, but you can tell me," John said quietly, once again _touching _him, brushing a finger along his wrist, feeling it below the cotton and the rough bandage still around it, and Sherlock felt tiny explosions on that brief expanse of skin, wishing for John to stop touching him like that, and feeling horrified lest he actually stop. How could he crave and dread someone's touch at the same time?

"John," he replied, voice low, wondering if this was quite the right time to say this. John looked up at him, blue eyes wide and weary, and Sherlock hated that if he told them the truth, those eyes would be filled with disgust, not admiration, and he just couldn't tell him. Not yet. Soon. He'd tell him soon. "There are things about me that you are better off not knowing," he finally said, wondering if this was honest enough. He was trying, he really was.

John's shoulder slumped. "Of course. I get it. You don't have to tell me. You tell me whenever you want." He gave him a tiny smile, eyes soft.

Why didn't John _understand_? He saw it, Sherlock saw the disappointment. John probably thought that Sherlock didn't trust him, didn't think him worthy enough to divulge his secrets, when it was just that Sherlock was so _scared_.

The elevator opened up.

"Come on," John said, his voice holding a horrible sort of false brightness, pulling Sherlock inside it with him. Sherlock hated himself even more, but he didn't have time to dwell on the loathing he felt for himself, because as soon as they stepped into the elevator, Sherlock felt so damn uncomfortable that he longed for the elevator doors to open again so he could run in the opposite direction of John Watson, because they were in closed confines, and John was _so close—_

"We're not moving," John said mildly, leaning forward across Sherlock to press the ground floor button. His arm brushed against Sherlock as he did that, and even under the layers of wool and cotton Sherlock felt the _warmth, _and he longed to feel John's skin against his own, unrestricted by the confines of their clothing, and the thought alarmed him.

"Yes, right," Sherlock said stupidly, moving back and leaning against the metal wall, putting some distance between the both of them, as much as he could possibly do in that bloody tiny elevator. _You can't think like this. You have Jim, remember? Think about Jim. Think about how pissed he'll be when he knows—_

"So this is what you do, huh?" John asked him, turning around. He was smiling at him. At _him_. Sherlock couldn't think for a millisecond because he was thinking how impossible it was that that particular smile of John's, that exact curve of his thin lips, was directed at _him_. He catalogued it immediately, making a space in his mind palace for John' face when he was smiling _just so._

He cleared his throat, tugging at the scarf around his neck, feeling warm. "Whenever I feel bored," he shrugged. "Which is...always."

The doors opened, and Sherlock took the opportunity to spring out of them so fast his coat flapped behind him. He pushed through the glass doors of the building, nearly fleeing, because he needed to feel and smell and breathe air that wasn't smothered in the scent of John Watson. He took a deep breath of the cold air outside, hating it, thinking it was awful that everything _didn't _smell like John, and yet he knew that his scent was cocaine to him now, and he couldn't afford to get addicted to it.

"Are you okay?" John asked behind, having followed him out.

"I'm fine," Sherlock bit out, a bit harsher than he intended to. He felt John flinch behind him, and he felt terrible. How many times could he think of what a horrible person he was today? Might as well start counting. Then he told himself that it would make things easier if John hated him. He would leave, and Sherlock wouldn't have to deal with this _longing_.

"Okay," John said slowly, moving around so he was standing in front of Sherlock on the steps. His eyes were narrowed, dark blue and unfathomable, looking at Sherlock like he expected him to faint or something. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I told you, I'm fine," he repeated, and began to walk down the street, thrusting his leather-clad hands into the pockets of his coat so he didn't instinctively reach out and touch John.

John fell into step beside him, and then asked, after a beat, "Where are we going?"

That made Sherlock stop on the pavement. "I honestly have no idea," he answered, and John burst out laughing. And Sherlock just stared at him, transfixed, once more losing his train of thought because of the undeniable fact of _John Watson_, who looked like the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life. And Sherlock had never wanted to make someone laugh quite so much, had never felt so _fantastic _for making someone laugh, and his stomach twisted into knots at the thought that this, _that laugh_, would never be his, and he didn't have the whole of his life to make John Watson laugh.

"You were so _purposeful _in there," John giggled. "And then you just rush out and start walking, and now you don't know where to go?"

"It's not quite that funny," Sherlock grumbled, although he couldn't be annoyed, not when John was making that _face_. "I need to go somewhere quiet to think."

John nodded, still trying to control his laughter. "Okay. So...you'll go home now?" he looked at Sherlock uncertainly, biting his lip.

_Home_. Sherlock would have laughed. As if he had a _home. _

"Well," he said, running a hand through his over-long hair, honestly wondering whether he should back to his flat and solve the case, because if Jim was there...Jim would be able to _smell _John on him, if not take one look at his face and ask Sherlock if he'd been cheating. Which he _hadn't_.

"How about my place?" John asked, ruffling his hair. "It's quiet there. And I never really made up to you properly. About..." John cleared his throat. "Last time. I could make you tea. I make _fantastic _tea."

Sherlock blinked.

"You want me to...come to your place?" he repeated, and he wanted to hit himself, because he was _repeating _what John had said. That was the utter height of stupidity. But he couldn't possibly have heard him properly. John was inviting him to his house, and how long had it been since someone had said that to him, not without the implied sex?

"Yeah," John said, sounding embarrassed. "You don't _have _to. I mean—you said you wanted to go somewhere quiet, and my flat is _very _quiet. It's dull, is what it is. It's nothing fancy, of course—"

"John, stop taking," Sherlock said, because he still wasn't comprehending the situation. "Are you quite sure?"

"_Yes!_" John said loudly. "Of course I am. Come on, it's near the hospital. We'll take a cab. Don't you want to solve the case?"

"I hope your tea is as fantastic as you say it is," Sherlock replied, raising his hand to call a cab.

"I don't _lie _about my tea-making abilities," John replied, sounding offended and adorable. And so Sherlock allowed himself to forget, just for a few hours, he told himself, that this was all a terrible idea and did he really trust himself to do this? But this was all so _perfect_, more perfect that he could have ever imagined. John Watson _and _a murder. It was just for a _day, _wasn't it? Surely he could allow himself that much. Surely.

_**OoO**_

_**Drying up in conversation,**_

_**You'll be the one who can't talk**_

_**All your insides fall to pieces,**_

_**You just sit there wishing you could  
>Still make love.<strong>_

_**OoO**_


End file.
